Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  Patiently Joanna repeated the story almost verbatim and Graham’s lack of concern rose even more to the surface.

  “Oh, she’ll turn up, no doubt. I shouldn’t worry. Some menopausal crisis.”

  Joanna didn’t have a son. But if she had she would have been bitterly disappointed to have provoked this cold response to an unexplained disappearance for forty-eight hours.

  “We’re not worried, Graham,” she said primly. “We deal with many disappearances, but your father is. I think he would appreciate a phone call from you.”

  “Oh, aye,” said the son and she put the phone down. And started doodling, thinking.

  Korpanski was eyeing her warily from the other side of the room, waiting for her to speak first, unsure what was in her mind.

  “Strikes me,” she said finally, “that although Beatrice Pennington had a family she led a very lonely sort of life. No one seems to have cared very much about her.”

  “Her husband does,” Korpanski pointed out.

  “Does he?” Her pen sketched a decreasing circle, spiralling inwards to the centre of the snail. “As much as most husbands?”

  “I think so. He seems gutted at her going anyway.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Korpanski’s dark eyes were fixed on her. “What do you expect? Kids get on with their own lives, Jo. The fact that her son and daughter didn’t have a lot to do with her and don’t seem that bothered that she’s beggared off for a couple of days is nothing unusual. I’d say it’s more typical. Maybe they think she and their dad had a bit of a row.”

  “He hasn’t said so.”

  “Yeah – but kids are intuitive.”

  She was pacing the room. “She wanted more out of life than simply being seen as a nuisance, Mike.”

  For some reason the vision of Beatrice determinedly pedalling up the hill, her face scarlet with effort, her breath coming in deep gulps, caused her pain. She wished now that they had cycled more slowly on the three occasions she had joined them, made it less obvious that they were so much fitter than she. There had been something so admirably gritty about the firm tightness around her jaw, the set of her mouth. Something which, according to her friends, had been a new ingredient.

  So what had changed her?

  Answer, the lover.

  So who was he, this magic man?

  She and Korpanski had a mountain of paperwork to do and plenty of other enquiries pending and the disappearance of Beatrice Pennington was hardly top priority. It was simply a frustration. They grabbed a sandwich for lunch and worked through.

  From Arthur Pennington they heard nothing. Every time the phone rang Joanna expected it to be him but it wasn’t; to her relief he stayed silent. She resisted the temptation to ring him and almost managed to push the missing woman to the back of her mind.

  Until four o’clock in the afternoon.

  When she stood up, restlessly wanting an answer to the question. “I think I’ll visit Beatrice’s other friend,” she said. “See what she’s got to say. She’s on night duty at the hospital so she should be just getting out of bed. If she’s working tonight, that is.”

  Mike barely looked up. He was checking through some personal details of a man who had applied to be a classroom assistant.

  Detectives have so many more responsibilities these days. They are expected to anticipate crime by screening the entire population for evil intent. It makes it easy then, to find someone to blame, if a criminal swims through the net.

  The police.

  She was in luck. Friend number two was home. As she drew into Harbinger Crescent she could see a white Citroen C3 in the drive of number 54. A woman dressed in a pair of unflattering cotton shorts and a blue t-shirt answered the door. Her hair was tied back, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. She was wearing no make-up, her feet were in thick-soled red flip-flops, the toenails painted in chipped red nail varnish. She looked in her early fifties and very very bleary-eyed.

  The night-nurse.

  “Mrs Saunders?”

  “That’s me.” Her response was more of a sigh.

  Joanna introduced herself and was invited into the garden.

  It was a warm, golden afternoon, peaceful, with a background of chirruping birds and buzzing insects. A soft breeze was moving the stems of the bushes so the leaves whispered their secrets around the flowerbeds and some tall, pink flowers clumped at the end of the lawn performed a slow, elegant dance in the sunshine. French windows opened out onto some green-stained decking on which stood bright blue china pots and some garden furniture – a table and four chairs topped by a jolly parasol. It was obvious someone in the household was a keen and skilled gardener. The lawns were immaculate, bright green, with ruler-straight edges, as neatly striped as the picture on the front of a packet of lawn seed. A Joanna Trollope novel lay face down on the table. It is nice to know what people read (if they read). It tells you more about them than they will tell you themselves. You unearth the romantic, the intellectual, the thrill-seeker.

  The introductions over, Marilyn settled back down on one of the chairs and Joanna took the seat at her side.

  “Now what can I do for you, Inspector?”

  Surely – she must already know about her friend’s disappearance?

  But Marilyn Saunders shaded her eyes by dropping the sunglasses. Joanna eyed her suspiciously. Sunglasses are a great way to conceal your expression. Leek is a small town. News travels as fast as a forest-fire. And Jewel Pirtek had struck her as a woman who would find it hard not to spread gossip, particularly to such a close friend. If she could have read Marilyn’s eyes she knew she would know whether she was telling her a stale story or hot news. But with the sunglasses in place even this would remain a mystery. As succinctly as possible Joanna gave her the benefit of the doubt and outlined all they knew about Beatrice’s disappearance, distracted by the dual image of herself mirrored in the sunglasses. Marilyn Saunders listened without giving anything away, her head tilted to one side. She was a good listener, nodding and responding with an, “Ah-ha”, at all the right moments without interruption. There was a reassuring balance about her manner and the way she gave Joanna her undivided attention. She must be an ideal nurse, someone who would listen, and give a thoughtful, unbiased, professional and informed opinion.

  If Beatrice had been tempted to confide in anyone it would surely have been in this woman who was so patently close to her in age and outlook and had the stable character of an agony aunt?

  Or was there something more complicated behind those blocked-in eyes?

  Joanna stopped speaking and sensed that the nurse’s attitude had changed.

  “I see,” Marilyn said quietly. “So she’s gone. That is what you’re saying?” Her face was turned away. She looked as though she was staring out across the lawn. And now her mouth looked slack, unhappy, uncertain; her hands were draped over the arms of the chair, her legs tightly crossed, her ankles jerking so it looked as though she was tapping out some swift panicked rhythm.

  Joanna’s answer was set at a deliberate tangent. She wanted to winkle out the truth that she sensed this woman knew but was reluctant to tell. She leaned back in her chair and shaded her eyes from the dazzling sun. “In some ways,” she said, watching the nurse from lowered lashes, “this is the sort of disappearance which does not give the police cause for concern. But in others –” She stopped deliberately short.

  Marilyn rose to the bait and nibbled at it gently. “Can you explain?”

  “This is a middle-aged woman, Mrs Saunders. Not a child or a vulnerable person. There’s no history of mental illness – depression or acute anxiety. If anything her recent mental state has been more robust in the last few months than it had been.” She noticed that Marilyn did not argue. “She lives a bare mile from her work in a town that is generally considered quite safe. She disappeared some time between nine fifteen and nine forty-five in the morning on a busy market day when there would have been plenty of people around. I don’t believe she c
ould have been forcefully abducted in that time without somebody seeing and intervening. It was light; the entire area is well populated and she was on a bicycle, which was carefully locked up. It is much more likely that she went voluntarily, either alone or with someone she knew.”

  This was the perfect opportunity for Marilyn Saunders to volunteer some information.

  But she didn’t. She simply sat, her face turned towards Joanna, the sunglasses masking her eyes. Joanna felt a strong impulse to peel them away and peer into the depths of her emotion.

  “But in other ways there is more to this disappearance than we first thought,” she continued.

  Beatrice’s friend froze and her hand flew up to her cheek. The only other movement in the garden were leaves and petals, stirred by the soft summer breeze.

  “Your friend Beatrice seems to have led a very quiet life. None of her family knows where she is. According to her husband no money has been taken from her bank account. Her mobile phone is switched off. Her car is still in the drive. Her passport is not missing. So where is she, how did she leave, what is she living on and who is she with?”

  There was no response from Beatrice’s friend apart from a guarded tension around her month and a sharp twitch of her shoulders.

  Joanna continued. “I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Saunders. The facts are this. In the last few months it has been noticed that she has been making an effort to appear more attractive, to get fitter, to lose weight. She’s been happier and she’s more or less admitted that she has a lover. I believe she’s gone away with someone. I simply want to know who and to check that nothing is amiss. I believe you know who it is. You were close friends, after all.”

  At last Marilyn Saunders removed her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. Something very bleak looked out of them then. They looked world-weary. Unhappy. Tired. She made a small, futile gesture with her hand but said nothing. Joanna reminded herself that the two women had had a long and close friendship.

  “Why do you think that, Inspector?” Marilyn’s voice was low and worried.

  “You know Jewel Pirtek?”

  Marilyn smiled and wiped ten years off her face. “Oh yes,” she said with real warmth and affection. “Beattie, Eartha – sorry – Jewel – and myself were all at school together. We’re old mates. The Three Musketeers.” Her fist flung up in the air.

  We all have these throwbacks. Joanna recalled Cathy and Ruth and smiled too, recalling chalk and biro pens, copied homework, shared secrets and teen magazines and thought how long it was since she had seen them. Friends disunited.

  She smiled. “United we stand?”

  “Divided we fall”, responded Marilyn Saunders automatically. And although it was the inevitable next line it rang a dull thud in Joanna’s mind.

  Divided we fall. This mantra held menace rather than promise.

  Joanna was suddenly fed up with wasting time on this. “Your friend, Jewel, more or less said so. Beatrice herself hinted something on those lines to me when we were cycling together. And Arthur found some new underwear in her drawer.”

  “What sort of underwear?” Marilyn asked, a note of panic making her voice shrill and sharp.

  “Ann Summers.”

  “Really?” Marilyn smothered a smirk. “Well – what a turn-up for the books.” But there was still something wary and guarded in her face. She wasn’t altogether happy – even with the tasty titbit of the sexy underwear.

  Suddenly she drew in a swift gasp of air. “I think it’s my – I think I might have encouraged her to –”

  She looked at Joanna.

  That was when Joanna first felt frightened for the missing woman. Because Beattie’s friend did too.

  “Look – it isn’t my job to drag her back, “ Joanna said, leaning forward, “All I need to know is that she is safe and well. Only that. I promise. I don’t need to know where she is. Once I have confirmed that she is all right I can cross her off the Missing Persons’ Register. It reverts to a domestic affair. She has every right to leave her husband.”

  Marilyn Saunders said nothing for a brief while but carried on staring towards the clump of pink flowers, her lips moving silently.

  Joanna waited.

  Sometimes it is better to give your witness space to decide what to say and how to say it.

  Finally Marilyn drew in a deep breath, looked up and fixed Joanna with calm, grey eyes. This time there was less worry. More of a sparkle. “You’re right, Inspector,” she said. “Beattie does have someone. But I don’t know who he is. I only know bits.” She sat bolt upright, dropped her feet to the floor. “Can I get you a drink, a lemonade or something?”

  Joanna nodded knowing the simple action would relax her.

  She was back in seconds, tall glasses clinking with ice-cubes and fizzing, cloudy lemonade, sipping for a while before talking.

  “I feel responsible,” she said.

  Joanna let her continue without interruption.

  “Beattie was desperate to find herself, to have a bit of fun before it was too late.” Marilyn frowned. “To have some adventure and enjoyment.” She frowned abstractedly. “You’re young yet, Inspector, but believe me. Life is not long.”

  Joanna made some polite comment, followed it up with, “Do you know how she met him?”

  Marilyn shook her head. “I don’t even know whether it’s someone from work or someone she met elsewhere but she will be with him, I promise.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Quite safe. From what she said he is just as passionate about her. She was quite desperately in love and her feelings were reciprocated. They will be together,” she repeated. “It doesn’t surprise me that she hasn’t taken anything with her. Beattie’s honest and fair. She wouldn’t rob Arthur. She simply wanted a new start. A new beginning. A second chance of life.” She lay back again and drank some more of the lemonade. “You’ve spoken to her son and daughter?” A gentle lift of the eyebrows invited comment.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know that they couldn’t care less about her. They’re a selfish pair of buggers if you ask me. And they’ve never been close. And as for poor old Arthur.” She smiled sadly, shaking her head. “He was one of those who was born old. He’s never had anything about him. He just plods on, going to work, doing the garden, sleeping, eating. He’s never been any different. There’s no sparkle about him. And that’s what Beattie desperately needs. Sparkle.”

  A young man wandered in. In his thirties. Crop-haired, muscular, in a black vest and well-fitting jeans, tattoos on both arms. He bent over and gave Marilyn a kiss on the cheek. “Hiya.”

  Marilyn’s face warmed and softened. “This is my partner, Guy,” she said, with the self-conscious pride of a trophy-dangler.

  Joanna tried not to gape and failed completely. Guy was around her own age, Marilyn an obvious twenty years older. They looked like mother and son.

  Guy sat down in the third chair, patently at ease. He grinned at Joanna. “I don’t think I know you, do I?”

  “This is Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, Guy. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “Speeding again?”

  Marilyn shook her head, stroked his arm with her hand. “Silly boy,” she said indulgently. “No. Beattie’s run off with someone. Or at least – she’s vanished.”

  Guy looked neither shocked nor surprised, but folded his arms behind his head, displaying hairy armpits, blatantly masculine. “Wow,” he said theatrically. “What scandal.”

  “And she’s been buying naughty underwear too.”

  The Ann Summers underwear was exposed as though it was strung along a plastic washing line in a dull, urban garden. Just as tawdry and unsexy and inappropriate.

  The scenes began to remind Joanna of Beryl Cook pictures because it stripped away so much illusion and left her with a graphic vision of reality yet still marked by this great sense of fun and mischief.

  Guy’s touching up his partner’s leg was simply one of the tableaux; the memory of Beatrice’s metamorpho
sis another.

  Guy’s hand wandered up towards Marilyn’s thigh. “Who’s she gone off with, tiger?”

  “We – don’t – know, Guy. We really – don’t.” A warning was tucked inside the transparent words.

  Joanna’s suspicions were alerted. This pair of lovebirds knew something. She looked from one to the other and addressed her next question to Guy. “You knew Beatrice Pennington well?”

  “Not really,” he said casually and without interest. “Not that well. I mean – she came here sometimes. A couple of times.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  Guy shrugged. “Not a lot,” he said.

  Exactly, was what Joanna was thinking. So what was the secret? Another youthful paramour?

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. Not a clue.” There was a tinge of matey Cockney in his voice, which made Joanna instinctively mistrust him.

  Guy grabbed his partner’s lemonade and took a long swig before handing it back to her. “She’s not with her mum and dad, is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Joanna said. “Not according to her husband. Is it likely she would have gone there instead of going to work?”

  “I’m only thinking if her mum had been ill or something. I’m sorry. It’s the only thing I can think of.” He subsided with a look of mock humility.

  Joanna returned to questioning Marilyn. “You never saw the man?”

  Beatrice’s friend seemed confused by the question. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think so. At least – not for certain. We met for lunch one day. I was early so I called around to the library. She was talking to some bloke. Tall, thin, round-shouldered, bald patch with comb-over. I think he works there. His name’s Grove. Adrian Grove. But I don’t know if he was the one. They just seemed sort of pally.”

  What they didn’t know was that Adrian Grove was on his holiday, walking in Tuscany – alone. While Beatrice’s passport was lying in a drawer at home.